


Warrior Princess

by Moit



Series: The Domestication of Stiles and Derek [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, F/M, Het, Infertility, Knotting, Romance, Sex, Skinny Dipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-04-20 14:41:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4791068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moit/pseuds/Moit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Allison and Scott receive confirmation that they will be unable to conceive a child, they cope in the only language they have left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warrior Princess

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place roughly between chapters 20 and 21 of [Domestication](archiveofourown.org/works/1142886/), but it can more or less be read outside of the series. 
> 
> This was written about a year and a half ago by SydnieWren and I. I'm not sure why I hung onto it for so long. I do hope to write more side stories with Arver, however! 
> 
> Allison was written by me, and Scott was written by Syd. 
> 
> And yes, the Peter/Isaac story is in the works!

Scott drives.

 

Allison stares out the window, watching Beacon Hills fly by the window in a blur of color. She doesn't even see the landscape, anyway. All she can think about are the doctor's words.

 

"I'm very sorry, Allison, but your womb is just not strong enough to support a child. It could be due to your beta status, but it's much more likely that it's a hereditary condition."

 

"My mother died a few years ago, so it's not like I can ask her about it."

 

The doctor pursed his lips. "I'm very sorry, Allison. There's nothing I can do at this point. Have you thought about surrogacy?"

 

Has she considered surrogacy? Of course not. She's thought of nothing other than her own child ever since she was old enough to know what it meant to be a mother. She would carry around her babydolls (when her parents weren't teaching her how to shoot a bow, of course) and dream about what it would be like when she could have one for real. Then she met Scott, her one true love, and knew she had met the man who would father her children.

 

Or so she thought.

 

Now, her dreams and hopes are dashed. She still has Scott--will always have Scott--but she won't be able to carry his baby, to prolong their legacy and the true bond forged between the Argents and the werewolves. Though she would like to believe that there is some mystical force at play which prevents a werewolf sperm from joining with her hunter egg, the doctor's words proved that thought to be false.

 

"What if we used a sperm donor?" She glanced quickly at Scott, hoping he wasn't offended by this idea, but she needed to give birth to her own child.

 

The doctor just shook his head.

 

If she were a drinker, Allison would probably drown herself in a bottle tonight. As it is, she has her anger, and she wants to shoot her bow until her arms ache and her fingers are sore from pulling back the string.

 

As it was the doctor showed them a sonogram, black and white static streaks, what a picture of their baby should have looked like. Instead it showed Allison's empty womb, strangely shaped: a bicornuate uterus. To Scott it looked like a heart.

 

He was surprised, faintly, by how small it looked.

 

And then he watched her wilt, question by question, under the doctor's witheringly professional courteousness: I'm sorry, Allison, but there's nothing we can do. It's just the way you're made.

 

She's made a lot of ways, he thinks, reaching for her hand over the center console. She doesn't seem to want to hold his. He holds hers anyhow. She's made strong, she's made beautiful, she's made to make him laugh, make him think, make him struggle for her.

 

"Allie," he tries, flashing a hopeful smile. "Allie, c'mon."

 

Already the road is shaded hazy violent with early evening, and a few stars have arisen on the horizon. Scott drives carefully, hand fixed at the top of the wheel, trying not to watch her out of the corner of his eye so damn obviously. But he fails.

 

"Hey, you want shakes? That fifties place? Chili cheese fries?" he's squeezing her fingers between his, hoping for even a glimpse of something approaching a smile. "Baby, just to get your mind off it for a while? They have that...that peanut butter fudge shake thing."

 

Allison can't even muster a smile.

 

"It's called a triple peanut butter blast," she says, because Scott can never remember what it's called. They visit that place at least twice a month, and every time she orders one. But she's not really angry with Scott. She's mad at herself because she's the one who can't have children. Scott could have easily found himself some fertile omega and knocked her up during her first heat, but no, he chose Allison, a beta who can't even conceive a child as a woman.

 

"I'm sorry," she whispers, squeezing Scott's hand back. She knows he knows she's not mad at him, but that doesn't make the pain in her chest hurt any less. Stiles and Derek already have two children, and Isaac and Peter have Addie. Why can't she and Scott just make one? "We can totally go there if you want. I'm not really in the mood for a peanut butter blast, but it's your call. You're the one driving."

 

It's the only thing she has to offer him right now. She can't carry his children, so why not let him make dinner plans, right? Clenching her teeth, Allison leans her head against the cool glass of the window. It's cool in the car despite the blistering heat outside, and it helps to rein in her anger the slightest bit.

 

Scott swallows and nods and fiddles with the radio, settling on some top-40 station turned down low.

 

"It's cool," he offers uncertainly, "don't have to go there."

 

After that he provides a couple off-handed muttering justifications; the place is out-of-the-way and they had it just a few days ago, so best to find something they haven't had in a while, right?

 

Allison doesn't seem in the mood to go out. To his welling unease she doesn't even seem to be depressed, as he thought she would probably be when he first processed the news in the office. Instead searing acrid tides of anger roll off of her in tense pulses.

 

Ideas turn over and over in his head: how to console her? If it were him, he'd want sex. But he can surmise that's the last thing on her mind: it would hit too close to home. These last few weeks when they've had sex they've done it with a tinge of winking hope: what if? But now they know.

 

Desperate, his mind wanders back to high school -- how did she blow off steam then?

 

A ragged exit with an unmarked sign approaches and Scott peels off the highway onto the narrow single-lane road, driving into the night. He grins at her, mustering all his reserves to emote excitement.

 

"Wanna go swimming?"

 

Allison shrugs. "I don't have a suit with me."

 

She knows it doesn't matter, anyway. They've gone skinny-dipping before.

 

Scott is just trying to cheer her up, but it's so difficult when all Allison can think about is her shortcomings. Her mother died thinking she was a disgrace to the family. Now, she can't even build a family with the man she turned her back on the Argents for. (She still talks to her father, but still.)

 

The gravel road that leads to the lake is more of a path than anything. Years ago it was probably gravel, but somewhere along the line it fell off the radar of those in charge of Beacon Hills infrastructure. Scott's little car can handle it, but only just.

 

They park a few yards back from the water's edge. Night has fallen completely, and the moon's glow reflects off the small waves in the water. The stillness of the night juxtaposed with the untamed nature of the water calls to something--the hunter, perhaps--inside Allison.

 

Overhead the moon is nearly full. It shines on the placid water so brightly the lake gleams like a mirror, almost mimicking daylight. Around its banks low shrubs grow in dappled patches of wildflowers and cacti, their shadows reaching in spindly fronds into the darkness of the water.

 

A light breeze trails ripples over the calm surface as Scott climbs out of his car and grips the hem of his shirt with crossed wrists, tugging it off in one easy pull. He slings it down on the hood to keep it dry and works his fly open as he circles to Allison's door.

 

Still she isn't excited -- not like she usually would be, anyhow, in such circumstances -- but he forces himself to keep his spirits high.

 

"Allie," he smiles, opening her door for her, "c'mon, show a little skin, girl. Ain't nothing I haven't seen before."

 

It is something he'd like to see again, though. No matter what's going on inside her, right or wrong, he's never been quite so taken with a woman's naked figure as with hers, and he's reasonably seasoned.

 

Allison has never been shy about nudity. She has a great body, and she knows it--she works for it. The first thing to go is her tank top. She opted to go braless today because it's too hot and she doesn't really need one, anyway. Her tits are perky little mounds topped with small pink nipples. Scott once told her her breasts were like a scoop of ice cream with a cherry on top. She had laughed at the analogy, but for all Scott's goofy personality traits, he was always genuine and sincere, and that's what she likes about him.

 

She steps out of her jean shorts next, taking her scrap of underwear with them. On a day like today, she was inclined to forgo panties as well, but the denim would chafe her sensitive skin. The sandals she wears are kicked off and left with the small pile of clothes next to the car.

 

Nude and pale, Allison stands in the moonlight without a hint of shame. Though she is hairless from the neck down, she keeps a small strip of hair over her mound, her "landing strip," she calls it. The small patch of hair makes her feel more like a woman, despite Lydia's numerous attempts to convince her to go completely bare. Once of twice she tried it, and while the cleanliness was good and the sex was better, something about it just felt wrong. Scott doesn't care, either way, so she shaves her bikini line and leaves a small bit behind. She piles her dark hair on her head and secures it with an elastic band to keep it from getting wet.

 

Walking to the water's edge, Allison skims her toes across the lake to test the temperature. It is cold, not too cold, but a nice respite from the heat of the day. Even unclothed as she is, she can still feel a trickle of sweat roll down her back. As she steps both feet in, she watches as her sparkly purple toenail polish sinks to a dull shine beneath the murky water.

 

For an attempt to cheer her up that wouldn't remind her of certain impossibilities, this was such a bad idea. Scott is beginning to realize it when he approaches from behind, having stepped out of his jeans and boxers. During a dry spell the mere thought of Allison nude would be enough to give him a semi; right now a glimpse of her perfectly round ass shadowed by pale moonlight is all it takes to give him a full on erection.

 

He swallows and strides up beside her, catching her hand in his. When she looks at him his eyes shine with that same innocence they did when the two of them first met, still boyish in that same way, still sheepish on some deep level.

 

Here they could look almost primordial, Adam and Eve of the dark canyon lake. Scott steps in without testing and doesn't relinquish her hand: instead he pulls her toward him, backing into the depth of the water with a grinning gasp and shiver; it's cool, not cold, and when he's waist-deep it feels so strange on his sex.

 

"Feel like marco polo? The one where you don't talk," he offers, always a favorite game. With training and senses like theirs, shouting isn't needed. Both could follow the other blindly anywhere, anytime.

 

"Not really."

 

Allison doesn't feel like playing games. She just wants to lose herself. Literally, too, but she can't do that to Scott or to her father. At the thought of her father, of being unable to carry on the Argent name, the idea that she is the last of her line brings a sob to her throat, and she ducks the lower half of her face under water to keep Scott from noticing

 

She did notice the erection he was sporting, however, how could she not?

 

She doesn't blame him. Scott is 19 and an alpha and a werewolf. It's practically his job to be horny. And it was supposed to be her job to give him children. They haven't talked about mating yet, not officially, but children weren't off the table until now.

 

Sparing a glance over her shoulder, Allison sinks her upper body forward and begins to swim for the middle of the lake. It feels good to burn off the extra energy beneath her skin, and she knows Scott will give chase. He always does.

 

When she glides through the water he feels pulled along in her wake by instinct. Before he was turned he didn't know what it felt like, the impulse to chase. Now he can sympathize with the way Derek's eyes dart and focus when Stiles flails around with those nimble-quick motions of his. Sometimes he thinks it's a wonder Derek managed to get Stiles' consent, driven like that.

 

He did though, or so Scott presumes. Maybe it happened like it does in those prehistoric documentaries, where old guys in tweed coats surmise omega slick evolved to secrete involuntarily upon contact because forced intercourse was so common among alpha/omega pairs back when people lived in caves.

 

Scott dives under into the murky black and propels himself forward with a couple of powerful strokes.

 

Nobody could force Allison to do shit. Scott surfaces grinning with that thought glowing like a coal in his mind. Somebody like Derek could pin somebody like Stiles down and have their way, but not Allie: even Scott thinks he'd wind up sans balls for trying it, and that's pretty hot.

 

Because when she wants him, she wants him with every ounce of fire and strength she'd throw him off with if she didn't. And everything she feels, she feels to the core of her being.

 

When he reaches out to stroke he feels loose threads of her hair in the water, and he draws up close, sweeping water off his face. Under the water he can feel her soft slippery body like marble in motion, cool to the touch and flawless. He runs a hand up the hard plane of her stomach and cups a tightened breast as he leans in to catch her wet mouth in a kiss.

 

"You know I had like, six wet dreams in one week after the first time we came out here," he laughs, and his laugh echoes softly on the water.

 

"Why am I not surprised?" Allison grins. Scott has been in love with her since they day they met. For her, it took a little longer. She fell in love with him the first night he brought her here. It wasn't because they went skinny dipping--they had already had sex by then--it was because after they got out of the water, he wrapped her in a towel and just held her on the bank. He didn't say anything, didn't have to, and Allison knew, then and there, that this is the man she wanted to marry.

 

Still treading water, she reaches up with one hand to trace the angles of Scott's face. His skin is much darker than hers, but it holds so much more warmth. She's always cold, which is one of the reasons Scott's lycanthropy fails to bother her. Not only did she love the man before she knew he was a werewolf, but he always always kept her warm. Tonight his eyes reflect the light of the moon. The sun doesn't impact werewolves at all, but the moon always makes it's pull known. For a moment Scott's eyes glow beta blue, and Allison knows it's due to the arousal she can feel brushing her hip, not anger or a lack of control.

 

"I'm getting cold," she murmurs, but avoids getting much closer, lest they lose their traction and begin to sink. The idea holds more weight than she realises, but love is it's own kind of anchor.

 

Allison presses a kiss to Scott's cheek. "Let's go back to shore." She's not as angry as she was, though it still hurts. She wants, more than anything, to defy the doctor's words and conceive a child against the odds.

 

With each glint of the moon on her wet skin the shift threatens to fulfill itself in the eerie glimmer of his irises and the faint aching pulse of his nails. He could shift right here in the water and swim under the surface the rest of the way back to the shore, propelling himself with those long impossibly powerful strokes, then pull her onto the still-warm sand of the bank and --

 

And he won't. She dampens it in him, that will to wildness, withers it somehow. With her he wants to be more man than wolf, because when he's with her he wants to be everything she sees in him that's noble and kind and strong, even if he loses sight of those things himself.

 

He smiles in the dark. Water echoes, lapping at the banks, and they swim side-by-side, splashing each other. He's laughing and turning and ducking under with great sloshes of water when the smooth stones grate his feet and he realizes they've reached shore.

 

When he pushes up on the bed of the lake and rises midway out of the water to kiss her, their laughter is still echoing in the canyon. Her lips are wet and sweet and taste faintly of some honeysuckle stain or gloss; Scott tongues her lower lip and licks up into the warmth of her mouth, sliding his arm around the small of her back.

 

"Warming up?" he grins, and fits the hard rigid plane of his stomach against her.

 

Instead of answering, Allison kisses him again. She pushes him down onto the bank, climbs on top of his body, and kisses him like she means it, like she's going to be the last woman who kisses him. Because she will be. It's one of the romantic notions in her mind, that even if she died, Scott would never love another woman like he loved her. And it's true, he wouldn't.

 

They're already naked, so she doesn't have to take the time to remove her clothes (or his). Allison just slithers down Scott's naked body and drops her mouth onto his cock. She's going for the full monty, wants it rough, wants it quick. Most of all, she wants to forget, wants Scott to fuck the memory of her failed body out of her mind.

 

His cock bumps her throat and Allison closes her eyes, willing her throat to relax. She tells herself she's not being choked, that this is not a life and death situation, and panic ebbs. Scott's cock edges it's way down and her nose hits his pubic hair. She can't breath like this, but judging by the noises Scott is making, he's enjoying this.

 

Allison may have been the first person to deep throat Scott, but she's also the first one to suck his cock at all, so it still counts for something in her book. Their firsts are very important for her. She tallies them up in her mind like little marks of success. She had been counting on first child, but she'll have to life with the tally marks she does have.

 

There are blowjobs, then there's oral sex. Scott had naively thought them synonymous until he'd experienced both. When Allison sucks his cock, it's not just any blowjob -- not just a quick lick and slurp in the backseat of a car moments before curfew, though there's something to be said for that, too -- when she does it, he feels it throughout his entire body. His thighs tighten and his back snaps up into an eager arch as his heart races and riverbank stones edge into his shoulders, but the tension itself is damn good. Blood rushes to his ears as his balls tighten and he slides his fingers into her hair, still tied up, snapping the elastic and working her mouth on his cock for a moment -- long, goddamn good moment -- then stops her.

 

"Babe," he pants, "c'mere."

 

His fingers find her shoulders and he sits up slightly to urge her up, back onto those strong knees. He lays out beneath her and keeps pulling, leading, begging her to slide up his body until she's straddling his mouth, and he can feel the warmth of her pussy inches from his lips.

 

It's like being teased, which she does so well, and he has to lean up and tip his head back to lick her. He can taste sweet lake water and the salty mellow suggestion of her own slickness as he parts her lips, plush and hot, dipping the tip of his tongue between. He's almost there, almost lapping at the tight clench of her sex -- but he moves up instead, sucking the bud of her clitoris wetly between his lips instead. While he works he holds her, one hand settled loosely on her ankle, the other set of fingers sliding teasingly against the cleft of her ass.

 

And his eyes shine blue, bright as a mirror of the moon.

 

Allison rides Scott's face until she feels her orgasm begin to crest. She keeps her position through the spasms and shuddering, and Scott gentles her through the whole thing. Though she wants to lose herself in the pleasure, she is careful not to crush her boyfriend. Suffocating whilst eating pussy would not be a sexy way to die.

 

When she finishes, Allison fumbles with her knees, legs feeling like jelly, until she's straddling Scott's chest, rather than his face. She leans down to kiss him, enjoying the taste of herself on his tongue. The tip of his dick prods against her thigh, then glances off her wet pussy. It sends frissons of pleasure shooting through her body, and she thinks she could go again.

 

"I'm going to fuck you," she murmurs into Scott's mouth. Normally, she isn't one for dirty talk, but it makes Scott's cock harden like a steel rod, so she does it from time to time.

 

Taking Scott's cock in hand, Allison backs up until she can easily slide down on the shaft. She takes him almost all the way down before sliding back up and pumping her hips again. Her thighs work tirelessly, hours of sculpted muscle put to good use. Her parents never could have imagined that all the time they spent training her and honing her skills would help her fuck a werewolf, but she discounts the idea that she and Scott should not be together because they loved each other before either of them knew they had a secret to hide.

 

Both his hands gravitate to her hips. Where other girls -- and there have been others, both of them have had others -- are yielding and fleshy, Allison is lean with muscle and sturdily athletic. It isn't as though she isn't pleasant to hold; her skin is soft and supple and always smells faintly of coconut, and when he lets his mind wander it always returns to the feel of her, steady and thick and strong.

 

And she's strong on top of him. Scott groans, arches up, offers his throat extended up in a curve, adam's apple bobbing in the shadow and moonlight.

 

With each bounce he can feel the tight ridges inside her pulse and drag against his cock, and if it weren't for the intensity of his concentration he'd already have come. One hand slides up her flank to roll a peaked nipple, the other smooths downward, over her thigh, and with his thumb he works soft circles over her clitoris. Even in the dark he knows the shape of the tiny hood, slick with fluid, some hers, some his -- he nudges it back and runs the pad of his thumb over the nub underneath.

 

"Allie," he pants, "'m so -- so -- so close, fuck -- love you, baby..." He's bucking, ineffectually against her rhythm, but still: something she does makes him move.

 

Working out as she does has done so much more for Allison than just tone her body; it's given her unbelievable control over her muscles, and by extension, her skill in the bedroom (or out, as it may be). Scott's hand on her clit (as well as her own insistence) practically guarantees that she will cum first.

 

So she does.

 

Gripping Scott's shoulders hard enough to break the skin with her purpled-varnished nails, Allison drives herself up and down his shaft until the pressure builds to an unstoppable heat and she comes in wave after wave of toe-curling pleasure like the gentle tide of the lake lapping at the shore. But she does not stop there.

 

When the tremors inside her body begin to ebb, Allison sits up straighter, balancing her hands on Scott's thighs and starts again. From this angle, his cock is pressed against that delicious place inside her, but the passage is made even tighter.

 

Allison releases small gasps of pleasure as her orgasm begins to build again.

 

Think about Derek. Think about Stiles.

 

It works for a minute, and Scott is sure he'll be able to keep this erection despite the way his vision fixates on her breasts bouncing with her rhythm, despite the way sweat builds on her collar bones and upper lip, despite the way her hair tumbles over her shoulder, a few stray strands blowing over her face

 

But then he thinks of Derek and Stiles, of Derek fucking Stiles, and fuck, in this situation, that's sounding pretty appealing. Every sense, every thought is flooded with sex.

 

His knot swells suddenly, like young wolves' do. There's no slow build, no gentle broadening, just a rush of blood and a burst of sensation as the base grows hot and sensitive and progressively thicker.

 

"C'mon, Allie," he pants, curled into a crunch, pumping her up and down by her waist. Veins and cords tense in his arms, shoulders, chest. His breath comes in tight desperate pants and finally, finally he loses control with a kind of howl, pulling her down hard. Her pussy stretches over his knot and the tip of his sex is encased in the tightest, hottest chamber of her, squeezed and stroked all at once.

 

He seems to cum forever, vision white, every nerve tingling. Relief breaks over him and he lets his head drop down in the riverbank dirt with a thud, eyes hazy and half-hooded with pleasure. His mouth shines and hangs open, then curls, eventually, into a smile.

 

"Baby," he mumbles nonsensically, hand hanging limp on her hip.

 

Allison doesn't stop until she's come a second time. She loves the feeling of Scott's knot tucked up inside her, and her orgasms are always harder when they're locked.

 

Scott wasn't the first person Allison slept with, but he was the first alpha. There were three betas before him--two males and one female. Being a beta herself, Allison never thought she would end up with an alpha, due to their seemingly single-minded focus on knotting an omega. Then again, with the way the odds were stacked, a beta was much more likely to land an alpha than an alpha was to land an omega. Not that Allison thought Scott chose her because he couldn't find a beta. They had both been with other people, but Scott once told her that the first time they knotted felt like his first time all over again because he would never forget it.

 

Adjusting the spread of her thighs over Scott's hips, Allison lies down on his chest. It's not the most comfortable position for knotting, but she doesn't feel like moving. She's content to listen to the gentle lapping of the lake, the sound of Scott's steady heartbeat. For a moment, her own heart doesn't ache for the loss of a child she'll never have.

 

"It's so quiet out here. I don't know why we don't do this more often." She runs her fingers up the small thatch of hair on Scott's chest. "Do you think it all changes? When you're mated? I hear people talk about how much different it is, but I'm not sure I want it to change. Derek and Stiles don't seem all that different." Except for all the children they have, she adds silently, which isn't fair because they only have two.

 

For a weird instant in his post-orgasmic haze he wonders if she read his mind. Why else would she bring up Derek and Stiles?

 

He shudders, running his hands over her smooth back. He drapes his arms over her finally, in a likely futile effort to keep her warm.

 

"This is nice," he sighs dreamily, mostly referring to the feeling of her breasts pressed against his chest. He nuzzles into her neck, pressing a smattering of soft kisses to her pulse.

 

"I wanna mate," he adds, then, contemplating her words. And he does; he's always wanted to. "We should do it, y'know...the big wedding thing. My mom would love it."

 

He can see it now: Stiles as best man, Lydia as maid of honor, Derek scowling and sulking in the pews. A silly smile spreads over his face.

 

"Really, Allie. Say when. I wanna...be with you...forever."

 

"Yeah?" The word comes out as more of a sigh than a question. Of course she's thought about the big white wedding and having her dad give her away. She just always imagined having her first child at the wedding to celebrate her mating. The dream isn't completely ruined..

 

But still.

 

Allison shifts again, and she can feel Scott inside her, pulsing and pressing in all the right places. She could almost cum again, but her mind is too tired, too satiated to give in to her body again.

 

"Do you think..." The idea is only half-formed in her mind, but she has to try. "Do you think maybe Stiles would be willing to carry a child for us?"

 

The question comes to him in shades. Would Stiles be willing? Probably. Stiles is willing to do all kinds of crazy things; in high school he talked him into doing donuts in the Safeway parking lot after an ice storm for fun. The repercussions on the other hand -- on their friendship and their personal finances -- are another matter entirely.

 

But Allie doesn't need to be bogged down in details right now. Scott is emotionally mature enough to realize that.

 

He tucks a few strands of her hair behind her ear and smiles, trailing his fingertips down her soft cheek and neck.

 

"I bet he would," he agrees, grinning dreamily. "I'll ask. Baby, we'll...work something out." He leans up, steals a kiss, and nuzzles her jaw. "I promise.”


End file.
